This was too easy, but that would change. Larabeth was too smart to leave herself open to his feeblest tricks. She would learn, but not soon enough. He would win.
Chapter 2
The Mississippi River crawled beneath Larabeth's baby-girl pink '67 Mustang convertible. Downtown New Orleans was behind her, out of sight and out of mind, as long as she ignored the image of the Superdome in her rear-view mirror.
It was a relief to cross the river. The daily act of putting a broad, deep, muddy force of nature between herself and the corporate world felt good. Descending from the great span and passing the toll booths, she made an executive decision to skip the gym, for once. A swift drive through the rural area around Belle Chasse would do far more to calm her nerves.
As she pulled into her garage, she found that the Mustang cure had worked again. Maintenance costs on two forty-year-old cars could be steep, but they were surely cheaper than a therapist, and far less nosy. Summer in New Orleans was an interminable curse, but at least she could put the top down and drive away her troubles most of the year, as long as she stayed alert for the other curse of the subtropics, afternoon thundershowers.
There would be just time for supper before she caught herself on the evening news. She hoped her orange suit photographed well and that the cameras didn't reveal any lipstick on her teeth.
She kicked her shoes off in the laundry room and rummaged in the dryer for a clean tee-shirt. Going straight to the kitchen and piling ham on a slice of whole wheat, she threw caution to the wind and laid the mayonnaise on thick. Thinking that a bowl of soup would taste good with the cold sandwich, she listened to the familiar pop-whir of the electric can-opener, dumped the tomato soup in a pot, then held the can under the faucet without looking.
The water spurted out with a strange gurgle. Not another plumbing problem, Larabeth prayed. She glanced at the sink, then looked again. Her water was green. Not pale green and not the natural green of a swimming pool gone bad. It was the sick green Hollywood uses in its fake toxic waste.
The unnatural fluid overtopped the soup can and flowed onto her hand. She let the can clatter into the sink, jerking her hand away and shutting the faucet off.
The fluid didn't burn her hand, at least not yet. There was no smell and no sticky or slimy feel to it. Nevertheless, Larabeth wanted her hand clean. Immediately.
She wiped it on a paper towel, picked up a bar of soap, then reflexively turned on the faucet and stuck her hands under the flow. It was still green.
“You idiot,” she muttered as she jerked them away and reached for more paper towels. “Stupid, stupid, stupid. When the nuclear holocaust comes, you'll be the last woman on earth to stop reaching for a light switch at sundown.”
Larabeth tossed the paper towels in the garbage. She was an environmental scientist. While her specialty was soil bioremediation, she could hold her own when it came to drinking water treatment. She could think of no plausible way for the local treatment plant to create water in that shade of green, but she guessed stranger things were possible. She could also think of no plausible explanation for her kitchen sink to go haywire unless water in the other areas of her house was also affected.
She was, however, scientist enough to check her other sinks. Maybe the water ran a different color in each bathroom. Maybe she was in Oz and her kitchen was the Emerald City. Maybe the water in the master bath was blue and Glenda the Good Witch was waiting there with a kiss and a pair of silver slippers. Maybe her water was like the tonic in Mary Poppins's carpetbag, turning whatever color or flavor you chose—although she frankly would never have chosen slime green. Or maybe she just needed to get a grip.
She left her kitchen sink to its steady green drip-drip and checked all three bathroom sinks. She checked the showers and tubs, even the whirlpool tub in the master bath. She flushed the toilets, ran water into the washing machine, checked the dishwasher and the icemaker. Nothing. Everything ran fresh and clear but the kitchen sink.
She studied the offending faucet for a while. Drip. Still green. Drip. Still green. It hadn't been dripping that morning. She had repaired many a leaky faucet in her day. She didn't see how a worn-out washer could cause this problem, but scientists did like to take things apart and see how they worked.
She reached into the drawer where she kept her household tools. It occurred to her that when she got the faucet dismantled, her hands would be covered with the green water. She didn't have any kitchen gloves, so she slipped a couple of large plastic bags over her hands and went to work.
Turning the shutoff valve under the sink and taking a wrench to the faucet, she lifted the stem assembly out and turned it over. The screw holding in the washer slipped out in her hands and the washer, covered in green goo, fell into the sink. There was a wet plop, but no metal-on-porcelain clink.
Larabeth picked up the semi-solid mass of green, cradling it in her palm. It had been a temporary washer, crafted out of a powdered dye and designed to dissolve slowly into running water. If she had allowed the water to run much longer, it would have dissolved away completely, leaving her with a sink dribbling clear water.
The solution to the green-water mystery was so interesting, it took Larabeth a full minute to realize the implications. Someone had tampered with her drinking water. She was more violated by the thought than she would have expected.
She looked around the kitchen to see if anything else was askew and she saw it—a tampering so subtle only the person who last used the kitchen would recognize it.
She had left the kitchen clean. She always left the kitchen clean. There had been nothing in the sink. She knew the counters had been bare, because she had wiped every surface clean. Yet now there was a cleaver in the sink, a butcher knife beside the cooktop, and a paring knife posed casually on the chopping board as if expecting the chef to return at any time.
She checked her knife block. It was empty. Every sharp implement she owned had been painstakingly arrayed around her kitchen. A glint on the windowsill caught her eye. She moved closer and found the kitchen scissors amongst her herb garden, as if poised to clip a few sprigs of chives.
This was bizarre. She would need to call the police. They would want to investigate the breaking-and-entering, and they would need to analyze the dye residue. She wasn't sure what they would think about the knives. Maybe they could get some fingerprints. Or maybe they'd just think she was a sloppy housekeeper with a bad memory. Nevertheless, the police must be called.
Larabeth was not one to turn over her well-being to anyone, no matter how professional or well-intentioned. She got a small plastic bag and, with a clean spoon, carefully raked into it a gob of green goo from the dye tablet she had removed from her faucet. Now she could hand the police an essentially intact piece of evidence while retaining a sample to analyze at BioHeal's in-house lab. There was no sense in risking a faulty analysis or a lost sample. Her chemists were accurate and reliable, and they would do the work in a fraction of the time.
She had tucked the sample in the refrigerator when the telephone rang.
“Did you watch yourself on TV, Doc?” It was him, the crank caller. She was not particularly surprised to find he knew her unlisted home number.
“I've been busy," she said coolly. "I may catch it on the late news.”
“I hear you have a nice house, Doc. Lots of windows. Lots of land. A long way to your nearest neighbor. I understand you live there alone.” Larabeth reflexively reached up and closed the blinds over her kitchen window. She immediately felt foolish.
“If you're threatening me, it won't work,” she said. “I may have been careless in the past, but no more. If you know so much about me, you know I can afford a security system, a gun, even a personal security guard, if that's what it takes. What is it that you want?”
“Calm down, Doc. I'm not threatening you. At the moment, I just want to talk to you. You do such interesting work. Biological treatment of contaminated soils. That, my dear, is a very lucrative mouthful, isn't it? Ever
ybody loves what you do, Doc. For the polluters caught with their pants down, your cleanup strategy (patented, of course) is quicker and cheaper than any other game in town. The bunny-hugging environmentalists love you because your strategy doesn't use any inconvenient toxic chemicals, it doesn't pollute the air, and it doesn't require the construction of a landfill in anybody's back yard.”
“Like I said this morning, you're not saying anything that hasn't been in the papers a dozen times,” she said, doggedly putting her knives away. Fancy wood-handled butcher knives in the block. Paring knife in its own self-sharpening sheath. Non-fancy ugly knives in the drawer. If she kept her hands busy, she wouldn't have to think.
“Larabeth, you are a feisty thing,” the cool voice continued. “I like that. But I digress. I'm also interested in your less well-known work. You were once quite well-versed on the Agent Orange debacle—where it was used, who was exposed, how it affects the body.”
“That was long ago, in graduate school.” The last knife slipped safely into its slot. “Congratulations. You've uncovered an obscure part of my past, but it's hardly a state secret. Am I supposed to be impressed? You won't even give me your name. We're hardly on an equal footing here.”
“I am completely uninterested in putting our—shall we call it a relationship?—our relationship on an equal footing.” The retort was quick and firm. There was no apparent change in the man's level, well-modulated tone, but Larabeth was chilled. She could tell he wanted her to be. “I will be magnanimous, however, and give you a name. Not my given name—I last used my given name in 1982—but one you will understand. You may call me Babykiller.”
Larabeth winced. She'd never been so unlucky as to be called a babykiller, but she knew many Vietnam vets who had. She hadn't heard that epithet in years. “So you were in Vietnam. So was I and so were a few hundred thousand other lost souls. What do you expect me to do with that information?”
“You can do whatever you like with it. You're quite adept at using information. Your graduate work on Agent Orange, for example. You amassed an impressive database, with precious little cooperation from our caring government. You knew more about our herbicide spraying program than the VA itself. They knew a good thing when they saw it. They're using your data for their own purposes these days.”
“I'm not surprised. Babykiller, tell me something. We've had quite a long conversation. Aren't you afraid it's being traced?”
“You should know by now that I don't answer direct questions. Use your beautiful head. There are a limited number of possibilities. Maybe I know for sure you don't have the equipment. Maybe I'm taking a calculated risk that you don't have the equipment. Maybe I don't care if you find me. Or maybe there's no way to trace me, even if you do have the equipment. I'll give you a few hints. I am older and wiser than you. I do care if you find me, and I don't take calculated risks. And with those jewels of wisdom, Doc, I really must go, but I'll leave you with a parting thought.”
He paused for effect. She listened for sounds of breathing and heard none.
“If I were you," he continued, "I would read the morning paper religiously. You may find me there—or you may see where I've been. Stay close to the phone, Doc.”
The receiver was hardly back in the cradle when the phone rang again. She snatched it up without thinking. Then, afraid Babykiller was on the line again, she heard herself answer in an oddly timid voice.
“Larabeth? You sound different. I guess it's been a long time.”
Larabeth made an effort to sound like herself. “J.D., you're right, it has been a long time. And there are some things we need to discuss. For instance, I owe you an apology. But right now, I need to get down to business. I've had three frightening phone calls today and someone has broken into my house.”
“I'm calling from my car. I can be right over. What did they take?”
“Nothing, so far as I can tell, but they left some things. I've been given a warning.”
J.D.'s tone grew firm. “There's no such thing as just a warning. Have you been in every room in your house since you got home? Are there any closets or shower stalls where someone could be hiding?”
“I've been in most of the house, but not every room. Shower stalls—no, nobody could be in there. I've looked. Closets, maybe, but most of them are too full for someone to hide in.”
“I assume you still live in the same house.”
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“Where are you now?”
“In the kitchen.” She didn't add, Crouched on the linoleum.
“I'll call the police. Until I get there or they do, get down where no one can see you through the windows. Don't answer the phone unless you screen it through your answering machine. Do you have Caller ID?"
"I'm not that paranoid. At least I wasn't before now.”
“And Larabeth—if anyone breaks in, they could be armed. Reach up and pull a kitchen knife out of a drawer, but only if you think you could use it if you had to. If you don't, leave it where it is. Too many people have been killed with weapons they were afraid to use. I'm going to hang up now and call the police.”
The line went silent.
Larabeth didn't budge from the floor. She reached up beside the cooktop and found the butcher knife she wanted. It was old and it had been sharpened many times. The worn handle was unsightly next to the cleaned and oiled chef's knives that she owned but didn't use. Most of all, it was huge. She crouched, waiting, and felt the edge of the blade. J.D. was concerned that she didn't have the guts to use it. J.D. didn't know the half of it.
There was little in the way of cover or camouflage on the floor of her kitchen. It was true, she was well-hidden from anyone trying to shoot through her window, but if someone got into the house or if someone already was in the house, she wouldn't go undiscovered for long.
Larabeth loved her house. She had supervised every step of the remodeling, exulting every time an interior wall came down or a new window went in. She had furnished it in "the colors God gave us", to use an interior designer's pretentious phrase: soft beiges, foamy blues, ocean greens. The resulting home was delightfully soothing—all light and glass and open spaces—but it was not designed for hiding from prowlers.
Nothing separated her from the great open core of the house but a low cooking island. Larabeth adjusted her grip on the knife's handle and wondered whether her home would ever look calm, welcoming, or safe again.
* * *
True to his word, J.D. arrived quickly, but the police had already come and gone. He found Larabeth pacing around her living room, mad enough to spit.
“They spent thirty seconds taking my statement,” she said, still pacing. “They searched the house. That took a minute, minute and a half, tops. They put the evidence I pulled out of my sink for them in a bag. I had to remind them to label the sample bag.”
“Why don't you sit down and calm yourself?” J.D. said in a reasonable tone.
“That's what those idiot policemen said,” Larabeth stormed as she settled herself on the couch. “They treated me like a hysterical female. Actually, I was perfectly reasonable until they botched their job. After that, I was not hysterical; I was seized with righteous anger. They actually suggested that this was a harmless prank pulled by someone I knew. Then they told me to keep a log of Babykiller's calls. They said I needed to show a 'pattern of harassment' before they could do anything. What if he—” She couldn't bring herself to say What if he kills me first?, so she sputtered a minute and said, "What if he never shows a 'pattern of harassment'? Idiots. If I were their boss, they'd be on the street right now.”
"If they worked for my agency, I'd fire them just to make you happy, but they don't. Is there any evidence you haven't told me about?”
Larabeth was too angry to change the subject yet. “Do you know that they completely ignored everything I told them about my knives?”
“What about your knives?”
"The intruder arranged all my knives around the kitchen. They
put some thought into it, making it look as though I'd left them out after I finished cooking.”
“It looks like your knives are in the knife block where they belong.”
“I wasn't thinking. I put most of them away before I realized what I was doing, but look at the scissors on the windowsill. And see the cleaver, there? I didn't leave them there.” J.D. didn't say anything. “I didn't. Don't tell me you don't believe me.”
“Oh, I do. I was just thinking. Even if the police had believed you about the knives, it wouldn't have made much difference. This break-in is important to you—” Seeing her face, he quickly added, “—and I'm concerned about it, too—but nobody was hurt and nothing was taken. It will naturally seem like small potatoes to those guys. So relax and forget them. I'll look around and then we'll talk about how I can help you.”
True to his word, J.D. searched the house, inside and out. Satisfied that no one was lurking in a closet or behind an azalea bush, he holstered his handgun and began a more systematic search for evidence of breaking and entering.
Larabeth watched him move purposefully through the house. She opened a kitchen drawer, but found herself unwilling to put the butcher knife away. For ten minutes, nothing and no one had stood between her and an intruder. A babykiller. Nothing but the knife. It was time to return it to its place with the other kitchen utensils, but the thought disgusted her. In her mind, she had used it on a human being. She pushed the knife far to the back of the drawer. At the moment, she couldn't bear to think of carving a leg of lamb with it.
A clumping sound at the back door startled her, but it was just J.D. knocking the mud off his shoes. “No evidence of forced entry," he said, "and no footprints in the yard. The soil's pretty damp, so I think I'd see prints if they were there.”
Wounded Earth Page 2
